Bander’s Tale

A Strange Shore

Out on the dark swell of The Song Tide, I was, scouting for some choice fishing holes, when like a curse from the abyss, these new lands loomed out of the damned mist. These shores, never before touched by our lot, the Anthoran, they was home to them faefolk, them ancient, twisty creatures. I could feel their power, a force beyond my ken, gnawing at the edges of my mind, driving me back to the refuge of the Rusty Anchor Inn. I spilled my guts to the crowd, but they just howled, said it was nothin’ but a phantasm, a shroud thrown over my eyes. Now I reckon, was it all just a trick of the mind, or did them faefolk weave their web around my soul? Either way, mark my words, I’m gonna plunge right back into that dark mystery, soon as I rustle up a gang fool enough to join me in that haunting domain.

Maybe it was some crazy enchantment them faeries flung my way, ’cause here I am, day after day, drawn right back to them borders on my fishing jaunts. In these fog-choked mornings, I steer clear of the usual paths of them leviathan and kraken, paddlin’ right up to the very edge of the mist, squintin’ through to them shores where these massive plants loom. Can’t rightly say if they mean me harm or if they’re just mindin’ their own business, ’til I rustle up enough nerve to set foot on solid ground. This place, it’s like it got cut loose from the fabric of time, and I can feel that ancient magic still hummin’ strong, just like it did in the days ‘fore us Mortals came to rule.

===========================

The next morn, I awoke to the ruckus of the breakfast crowd below, their voices carrying tales of plundering and peril on the open seas.

We figured piracy was squashed and buried deep in The Long Sea, a thing of the distant past. But now there’s whisperings of fresh trouble stirrin’ ‘cross The Song Tide Archipelago. We ain’t never been big on privateers or no militia since them days we fought tooth and nail, carvin’ out our own slice of life amidst these islands, pushin’ back them barbarians, or so we learnt in the school. But now talk’s swirlin’ ’bout shoring up the defenses, keepin’ a watchful eye out for them Pirates, making sure our goods don’t go missin’ as they travel to and fro.

You wouldn’t believe it, but some of the young bloods in Bardtown done got swept up into their ranks. And get this, there’s talk goin’ ’round that they got their own secret settlement, some hidden haunt where they stock up and kick off wild brawls, all part of their reckless ways.

Keep your eyes peeled for them notices in the big towns ’round The Song Tide, ’cause there might just be a holler for folks to band together and defend our turf.

“See, with all these fresh colonists pourin’ in day by day, settin’ sail for them Outlands, it’s like a feast for them pirates,” Elmassod mused, his grizzled voice carrying the weight of years, as we sat across from each other at the Rusty Anchor Inn in Rothigport.

“Them newcomers, they’re criss-crossin’ The Long Sea in droves, almost as many as back in the days post-Exodus from them Central Kingdoms, after the Deluge, way back when. And them scurvy dogs, they got more easy targets than ever.”

Elmassod, he was right, no denying that. Considered the wisest soul in all of Rothigport, most folks looked up to him, respected him for steerin’ clear of the fracas of politics and the bickerin’ over the art of magery.

“These waters, they used to be calm as a slumberin’ babe,” I muttered.

“True enough, Bander,” Elmassod replied, his voice carryin’ a somber note. “But things, they’re shiftin’ on a scale that’s beyond my reckonin’.”

“Now, I wouldn’t go so far as to say them scoundrels of the seas got their own lair tucked away right here in Song Tide, despite all them whispers goin’ ’round,” Elmassod chuckled.

I laughed too, puttin’ my trust in Elmassod, even though more than a few seasoned captains had spoken to me ’bout the swift strikes of them pirates. They gotta be hidin’ somewhere, no doubt.

We both knocked back the last of our Orinsol ale, a local specialty, and steered our talk toward less prickly.

Elmassod, he was a deep thinker, no denying that. The more he knocked back, the more it seemed like he had the whole dang world tucked away in that noggin of his. Some folks ’round here, they called him the crazy old coot holed up in the corner of the Inn, always lookin’ to snag some fresh face into the tales of Rothigport, ’bout how his ancestors carved out this rugged patch of land back in the days when it was a battleground for Gods and Monsters.

He’d been ’round before the Exodus, seen it all, he had. Recalled when them Arch Mages staked their claim on Song Tide, makin’ it a sanctuary against the darkness creepin’ in from them Outlands, and against the chokehold them Central Kingdoms had on us.

Me and most others, we looked up to him, took him as a guide, ‘specially when it came to gettin’ a straight answer, ‘specially when we ventured beyond the realm of magery.

“Well, now, I ain’t got no quarrel with magic and whatnot,” he once confided in me, his voice carrying the weight of countless years. “Just never did find the time or the patience to go divin’ deep into them studies,” he added, a wistful note in his tone.

I took a likin’ to his unbiased perspective, ‘specially considerin’ how some folks ’round these parts, they put magery up on a pedestal, makin’ it out to be some kind of holy grail.

You got them old mages, they was all about doubling down on the power of magic in this here realm, holdin’ tight to the old ways. Then you got them new-fangled industrialists, turnin’ a blind eye to it all, puttin’ all their chips on merchants and the trades.

Me, I found myself caught in the crossfire of this whole debate. I respected the Elders, like Elmassod, for sure, but at the same time, I saw there was room for some growin’ with these fresh ways.

After all, we all know, it wasn’t just magery alone that brought down them Gods in that epic clash of the Great War of the Third Age.

Bardtown and Rothigport, they was ablaze with talk of piracy slitherin’ through the nooks and crannies of Song Tide, but Elmassod, well, he kept his cool, like always.

“These ain’t the ones we oughta be losin’ sleep over,” he’d say, his voice steady as the docks beneath us. “There’s darker things at play, from above and below.”

And I knew he spoke the truth, ’cause he was in tune with sources far wiser than the buzz bouncin’ around them Inns and markets.

“True indeed, their foothold’s growin’ stronger by the day,” he’d murmur, talkin’ ’bout Kraken’s Cay, that nest of buccaneers, sittin’ just southeast of Rothigport. “Why else would they be tryin’ to build themselves a home, if they didn’t wanna be part of us? All they want’s to be accepted.”

It made sense, really. Them top-notch captains, they knew how to give them sea scoundrels a wide berth, but them boundaries between ’em and the law-abidin’ folk, they was porous. Come nightfall, the most vicious captains would be jawin’ away in them taverns, while hapless travelers stumbled right into their lairs, with no one to turn to.

“We might just harness their ambitions when the real threats come knockin’,” Elmassod mused, his voice carryin’ a hint of somethin’ darker, somethin’ weighty.

===========================

Soon as my chat with Elmassod was over, I boarded the Tide Skipper, that ol’ ship docked in the harbor, set on makin’ my way to Bardtown. I had a hankerin’ to dive back into their libraries, needed to dig up more ’bout this realm of the Fae. Couldn’t go traipsin’ into that realm all green and clueless, after all, and the notion of unravellin’ the secrets of that ancient domain, well, it had me hooked.

Ain’t been to Bardtown more than a handful of times, mind you, and every trip before this one was all ’bout catchin’ one of them ditties spun by The Jolly Jongleurs, my favorite band. But this time ’round, I was on the hunt for one of their libraries, had my sights set on trackin’ down Gilderstilt, the keeper of tomes at the Hall of Glossolalia.

“We Song Tiders, we like to reckon we’re the oldest lot here on Deluvia,” Gilderstilt drawled, his eyes sharp as a hawk’s, seemin’ to look straight past me into some distant horizon. “But there’s depths much more ancient than us mortals’d ever dare to plumb,” he went on. “Three primal realms, still held by the Gods, stand untouched, even in this Age of Mortals. My old bones, they ache to set foot in them lands, commune with them ancient deities, and grasp their wisdom, to learn of the sprawling flora and fauna.”

He knew of them places, he did, but the particulars, they eluded him. Only the boldest of hunters and explorers, he told me, had the grit to plunge deep into them depths. Gilderstilt kept on, his voice steady as a winter’s night, “With them new heroic avatars makin’ themselves known, maybe one of ’em’ll find the courage or the curiosity to venture forth, to come back with knowledge to fill my tomes.”

“From what them scholars done penned down, there’s three vast domains, one of forests, one of frost, and one of fire, each ruled by a God wieldin’ that very elemental might. Yet no hero’s ever come back,” he added. It made me feel a pang of sorrow, knowin’ my own kind had met their end. But Gilderstilt, he assured me, them brave pioneers, they knew the dangers, even the risk of losin’ their own life, and they embraced it all the same. Made sense, it did.

The forestfolk and the faefolk, they seemed the friendliest bunch to approach first, least harsh on the senses, too. Frost and fire, well, that just weren’t sittin’ right with me at this stage of my trainin’. I figured, if I could gather me some herbs, bring ’em back to Yewestra, maybe that’d earn me a bit of her favor, get her to teach me a bit more.

Ain’t a soul ’round here’ll give my tales of the Land of the Faefolk the time of day. Heck, more often than not, I’m the butt of every joke, got the youth ’round here dreamin’ up wild fantasies. Can’t rightly blame ’em, though. I’m just a no-account service hand, doomed to mop up tables at the Rusty Anchor till the end of days. But the yarns spillin’ out from them travelers passin’ through our bustling port, they’re enough to make even the most grounded mortal yearn for treasures, for adventure, for a taste of that sweet nectar from the apple færies.

It was when Mister Dashwell, a regular guest here at the Inn, made his way down for his breakfast. Poured him his Chigweed Tea, handed him his Greenbriar Gazette, like always. He took a likin’ to me, seein’ me as this solitary figure with no real support or direction. Dashwell, he was a professor from the time before The Great War, back at the Academy of Xandrius in Pallamost, a city that got swallowed up by the Great Deluge. Dressed in his studious waistcoat, but nothin’ about him spoke of riches or possessions. After the War took his job, he turned into a wanderin’ tutor, and from the sound of his tales, a student of the Cosmos.

He was one of the precious few who didn’t scoff at my longin’ to set sail from these docks, head west into the unknown. Professor Dashwell, he was the one who led me to Gilderstilt and his Hall of Scribes over in Bardtown, knew he could swing open a good many doors for me. Thought Elmassod was just a blowhard, relishin’ in the tales of his glory days as a soldier in the War, he did.

===========================

I wrapped up my chores at the Inn and made my way to the north side of town for my nightly stargazin’, as was my custom. That’s when I spotted this glimmer on the horizon. The object, it was gettin’ closer, and soon enough, I could make out a longsea skiff runner tearin’ through the waters, smoke billowin’ out its hull. I scanned around, hopin’ someone else had their eyes peeled for this fast-approachin’ craft, ’bout to smash right into the shore. But I was too far out for most folks, them bein’ too spooked by the whispers of magical beasts lingerin’ ’round these parts, like them gazers or lizardfolk. Me, I knew better. This stretch of shore, it was as safe and private as they come.

As the skiff drew nearer, I hightailed it over to where it looked set to crash, and crash it did, right into a big ol’ rock. I scrambled over, thinkin’ there wasn’t a soul inside, only to see this furry hand pokin’ over the gunwale, and I tell ya, it gave me a right good fright. Turned out to be some old raccoon clan fella, all beat up, wearin’ scars like badges of honor, with a patch over one of his masked eyes. Hangin’ on to the frayed ends of his life, he was, needin’ a helpin’ hand. I hauled him outta that vessel of his, careful like, and dragged him up onto the shore. This salty seafarer, he was heavier than I reckoned, especially with all his gear.

Then, with one last burst of strength, he locked eyes with me, pulled my head close, and whispered, “He’s a comin’. Can ya hear ’em?”

He took a good, long look ’round, out over The Long Sea. I figured he must be talkin’ nonsense, delirious from all that blood loss. But he kept goin’, ramblin’ ’bout them fangs snarlin’, them claws snappin’ like the devil hisself. “Let me patch up that noggin of yours,” I offered to the poor soul. But he went on, “He’s after Razgrol’s map, that fiendish brigand and his pack of cuthroats.” His voice trailed off, and then he started chokin’, clutchin’ at his throat, coughin’ up blood afore fallin’ off the rock I’d propped him on.

I knew I had to get him to a healer back in town, so I lent him a hand, hauled him up. Ms. Tukkins, she was my boss, the one who ran The Rusty Anchor. She’d be able to help. Dragged him down the beach, found us a less noticeable route, hopped into a tiny dinghy tucked under the docks, and paddled us back to the main harbor. Brought Razgrol, right into the Inn, sneaked him in through the delivery hatch, to keep folks from prying. Knew most of them secret passages crisscrossin’ through town. Up the back stairs to the kitchen, where Ms. Tukkins was still tidying up from the last round of drinks. She was rightly taken aback, seein’ me pulling in this bedraggled, ancient figure into her place. But she trusted me, and she hustled right up to tend to his wounds.

Razgrol, he shook off his stupor for a moment, croakin’ to me, “Me satchel, lad,” diggin’ deep in his threadbare coat. I helped him fish out this weathered leather bag, passed it on to him. “He’ll be comin’ soon,” he went on, clutchin’ that satchel to his chest. “Cannot let ’em find this.” And then, he seized my shirt, mustered up one last burst of strength, and drew me close, nose to nose, and he muttered, “The Necromancer. . . Beware the Necromancer. . .” With that, he slumped down, off to the great beyond, with a long, drawn-out groan. Them final words, they sent a cold tremor right through me. Sure, there was plenty of magic ’round these parts, both the good kind and the evil, but a necromancer? Did them even exist, I found myself wonderin’. Razgrol, I reckon, was gone.

Dashwell burst into the room all of a sudden, wearin’ that same worrisome expression he’d had since mornin’. His eyes fell on the bandit sprawled out on the floor, and he moved in quick to lend a hand. “Ma’am,” he whispered, soundin’ mighty distressed, “there exists a warship sighted along the seamark, with intentions of docking at Rothigport. It is prudent to be apprised of this development, as its arrival may potentially disrupt the tranquility of our establishment.” Tukkins nodded at him, and Dashwell confirmed what we’d already suspected: our newfound friend had breathed his last.

Together, we hoisted him back down to the dinghy, aimin’ to find a proper spot to lay him to rest. Once we got to the shore, I caught sight of the ship Dashwell’d been yappin’ about. It was a real monster of a vessel, loomin’ and forebodin’, makin’ its way closer and closer. I wasted no time in takin’ Razgrol back to where I’d found him. Couldn’t help but snatch up his satchel on the way; it was clear it held some value, and it wouldn’t do no good bein’ buried out at sea.

Placed his body back in his skiff, turned it ’round, and engaged the mist ginny to guide him back out to the waters he’d come from.

=======================

We stayed on the edge of town as we saw the massive galleon creak its way toward the northern docks. Now the suns would be rising soon and we figured the crew needed a place to dine and sleep for the night, and we didn’t want it to be The Rusty Anchor Inn.

I saw Dashwell look at the opening of my jacket but then look away fast as soon as he noticed me noticing him. Alas, Razgrol’s satchel was still on me. “Should we hide it out here?, I asked Dashwell.
“Young lad, I believe we should open it and see what’s inside”, he said.

I appreciated that Dashwell was as curious as I was about our world, Deluvia, as I was, but I was going to trying to find the respectful thing to do with Razgrol’s satchel, especially after his death.
“He did give it to you for some reason master Bander, ” Dashwell added.

I trusted Dashwell. “Alright, but let’s get further away from Rothigport, and especially that  evil-looking ship

We moved quickly, making our way through the darkened streets and out into the countryside. The early morning air was crisp and cool, a welcome change from the oppressive atmosphere surrounding the galleon. As we found a secluded spot beneath an ancient oak tree, I carefully unbuckled the satchel and spread its contents on the ground.

Inside, we found maps, strange trinkets, and a journal. The maps were marked with routes and destinations unfamiliar to us, leading to places deep within the heart of the Song Tide Archipelago. Among the trinkets, a small, intricately carved wooden box caught Dashwell’s eye. He opened it to reveal a shimmering crystal, pulsating with a faint, eerie light.

“This is no ordinary crystal,” Dashwell murmured, his eyes wide with awe. “It’s imbued with powerful magic.”

He then picked up the journal and began to leaf through its pages, filled with Razgrol’s scrawled notes and sketches. “These writings,” Dashwell said, “speak of a hidden realm and a powerful artifact known as the Heart of the Sea. Razgrol was searching for it, and it seems this crystal is a key.”

Just then, a rustling sound interrupted us. From the shadows emerged Elmassod, his expression grave. “I’ve been watching you two,” he said. “It’s not safe to be out here alone, especially with that ship in the harbor.”

“We found this in Razgrol’s satchel,” I explained, showing him the maps and the crystal. “We think it might be linked to something called the Heart of the Sea.”

Elmassod’s eyes narrowed as he examined the crystal. “I’ve heard legends of the Heart of the Sea,” he said. “A source of immense power, hidden away in the depths of the Song Tide Archipelago. Many have sought it, but none have returned.”

“We need to find it before that ship’s crew does,” I said. “Whatever they’re after, it can’t be good.”

Elmassod nodded. “We’ll need more than just the three of us. We should gather a crew of trusted friends and set out at first light. This mission will be dangerous, but we can’t let that power fall into the wrong hands.”

“But we need to be careful about who we tell,” Dashwell interjected. “If word gets out about the Heart of the Sea, there will be those who want it for themselves. We should keep our true objective a secret.”

“Agreed,” I said. “We tell the crew we’re searching for an old treasure map Razgrol left behind. The Heart of the Sea stays between us.”

We returned to Rothigport and began assembling a crew. Our first recruit was Garrick, a burly, one-eyed mercenary with a scar running down his cheek. Known for his unwavering loyalty to the highest bidder, he was a formidable fighter, though not particularly inquisitive. Perfect for our needs.

Next was Lira, a cunning rogue with a sharp tongue and quicker fingers. She had a knack for finding hidden traps and locks, skills that would prove invaluable in the treacherous terrain of the archipelago. Lira had a keen eye for treasure but was more interested in the thrill of the hunt than the spoils themselves.

Rounding out our group was Finn, a young, enthusiastic navigator who had grown up sailing the Song Tide Archipelago. His knowledge of the islands and his natural charm made him a valuable addition, though his naivety might prove a challenge in keeping our true mission under wraps.

The night before our voyage, the Rusty Anchor Inn was alive with activity. The crew had gathered in the common room, their faces lit by the flickering glow of the hearth. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meat and the sound of clinking tankards. Garrick, Lira, and Finn each occupied a different corner of the room, their personalities unfolding under the warm, amber light.

Garrick, the seasoned mercenary, sat at a sturdy wooden table near the fireplace, his imposing figure casting a long shadow. He nursed a tankard of ale, his one good eye scanning the room with practiced vigilance. A group of younger sailors watched him with a mix of awe and trepidation, drawn by the tales of his exploits. Garrick’s presence was formidable, but there was a quiet, almost paternal quality to the way he observed the room, as if weighing each person’s worth.

“Back, before the deluge, when I was with the Warhound Brotherhood of mercenaries,” Garrick began, his voice gravelly and commanding attention, “we were hired to defend a fortress called Ironhold. It was a massive stone behemoth perched on a cliff, guarding the only pass into the Silver Mountains. The place was under siege by a warlord named Karzak, a brute with a massive army of cutthroats and beasts. The siege lasted for weeks. They battered our walls day and night, trying to find a weak spot. Supplies were running low, and morale was even lower. One night, during a particularly fierce storm, Karzak’s forces launched an all-out assault. They breached the outer wall, and it looked like all was lost.

“But then, I had an idea. Using the storm as cover, I led a small group of our best fighters through a secret tunnel that led out of the fortress. We circled around and attacked Karzak’s camp from the rear, setting fire to their supplies and causing chaos. The distraction was enough to turn the tide. We managed to push back the invaders and hold Ironhold until reinforcements arrived. It was the closest I’ve ever come to death, but we saved the fortress and our lives that night.”

Lira, on the other hand, was the center of a lively conversation at the bar. Her quick wit and roguish charm drew people in, her laughter ringing out like a bell. She was nimble and slight, her fingers playing absentmindedly with a lockpick as she spoke. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and she had a way of making even the most mundane stories seem thrilling. Despite her playful demeanor, there was an intensity in her gaze that hinted at a deeper, more cunning nature.

“A few years back,” Lira began, her voice light and playful, “I was part of a crew of thieves in the city of Veldora. Our target was the Sapphire Idol, a priceless artifact kept in the heavily guarded temple of the Sun Goddess. The idol was said to be protected by powerful enchantments and traps, but the reward was worth the risk.

“We spent weeks planning the heist, studying the temple’s layout and the guards’ routines. On the night of the new moon, we made our move. I was the one to disarm the traps and pick the locks, my heart pounding with every click and snap of the mechanisms. Everything was going smoothly until we reached the inner sanctum. The idol was there, glowing with an ethereal light, but so was the High Priestess, performing a midnight ritual. We had to think fast. While the rest of the crew created a distraction, I slipped in and snatched the idol, replacing it with a replica we had crafted. We barely escaped with our lives, chased through the streets by the temple guards. But we made it, and the Sapphire Idol fetched us a fortune. It’s still one of my proudest moments, pulling off a heist right under the nose of the Sun Goddess herself.”

Finn, the young navigator, was a bundle of energy and enthusiasm. He had a map spread out on a nearby table, eagerly discussing possible routes with anyone who would listen. His sandy hair fell into his eyes as he leaned over the parchment, tracing lines with a finger. Finn’s excitement was infectious, and he had a way of making everyone feel like they were part of a grand adventure. His youthful innocence and boundless optimism were a refreshing contrast to the seasoned cynicism of the older crew members.

“When I was just starting out as a navigator,” Finn began, his eyes lighting up, “I signed on with a merchant ship called the Long Sea Wanderer. We were on a routine trading voyage when we got caught in a terrible storm. The winds and waves tossed us around like a toy, and we were blown way off course. When the storm finally passed, we found ourselves in uncharted waters. As we sailed on, we spotted an island on the horizon. It wasn’t on any of our maps, and the captain decided to explore it. We anchored in a sheltered bay and went ashore, finding a lush, tropical paradise untouched by human hands.

“As we explored, we discovered ancient ruins overgrown with vines and flowers. In the heart of the island, we found a massive stone door covered in strange symbols. I managed to decipher some of them, realizing they were warnings about an ancient curse. Despite the warnings, the captain insisted on opening the door. Inside, we found a treasure trove of gold and jewels, but as soon as we touched it, the ground began to shake. We barely escaped as the ruins collapsed around us. We made it back to the ship with only a handful of treasures, but we left the rest behind, too scared to face the island’s wrath again. It was my first taste of real adventure, and it taught me that the sea holds many secrets, some better left undiscovered.”

As the stories ended, the crew members exchanged glances of respect and camaraderie. Each tale added to the tapestry of their shared adventure, strengthening the bonds that would carry them through the trials ahead. Despite the secrets we harbored and the dangers that lay ahead, there was a sense of unity and purpose that bound us together. As the fire burned low and the inn quieted down, I felt a surge of hope and determination. We were ready for whatever awaited us in the uncharted waters of the Song Tide Archipelago.

As dawn broke, we set sail on the Tide Skipper, the satchel’s contents safely stowed away. The crew was eager, their minds filled with tales of lost treasure and ancient relics. We maintained the pretense, keeping the true nature of our quest a closely guarded secret.

Garrick, ever the pragmatist, approached me one evening as we navigated a particularly narrow passage. “Bander, this treasure we’re after—what exactly are we looking for?”

“Maps and old artifacts,” I replied, keeping my voice steady. “Razgrol hinted at something valuable, but we won’t know until we find it.”

He grunted, seemingly satisfied, and returned to his post. Lira, on the other hand, was less easily convinced. She often eyed the satchel, curiosity dancing in her eyes. “That old raccoon must have had quite a stash if you’re willing to go to such lengths,” she remarked one night as we gathered around the campfire.

“Something like that,” I said, smiling. “You’ll see soon enough.”

Finn, blissfully unaware of the deeper motives, was simply thrilled to be part of the adventure. “This is the stuff of legends!” he exclaimed as we sailed past a pod of playful dolphins. “We’ll be famous for this!”

Days turned into weeks as we followed Razgrol’s map through the winding channels of the archipelago. The journey was fraught with perils—treacherous reefs, sudden squalls, and strange creatures lurking beneath the waves—but our crew was resilient.

One evening, as we navigated a particularly narrow passage, we spotted a small, secluded cove. “This matches the location on one of Razgrol’s maps,” Dashwell said, pointing to a spot marked with an X.

We anchored the Tide Skipper and made our way ashore, following a narrow path through the dense jungle. The air grew colder, and an eerie silence fell over the island. Eventually, we reached an ancient, overgrown temple. The entrance was guarded by statues of mythical beasts, their eyes seeming to follow our every move.

“This is it,” Yewestra whispered, her voice trembling with excitement and fear. “The source of the Necromancer’s power lies within.”

We pushed open the heavy stone doors, revealing a vast chamber lit by a strange, otherworldly glow. In the center stood an altar, upon which rested a crystal pulsating with dark energy.

“We must destroy it,” Dashwell declared, his voice echoing through the chamber. “It’s the key to the Necromancer’s power.”

But before we could act, a cold, menacing voice filled the air. “Fools,” it hissed. “You dare to challenge me?”

From the shadows emerged a figure draped in tattered robes, his eyes burning with an unholy light. The Necromancer had found us.

The chamber erupted into chaos as we prepared to face this new threat. The fate of Rothigport, and perhaps all of Deluvia, hung in the balance.